


After So Long

by Ghostcat



Category: Veronica Mars (Movie 2014), Veronica Mars (TV), Veronica Mars - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1940s, Bathroom Make-Outs, Canon Speculation, Dubious Fighter Jet Metaphors, Enemies to Lovers, Espionage, F/M, Ficlet Collection, Flirting, Kissing, Logan and Veronica Appreciation Week, Longing, Missing Scene, Nostalgia, Podfic Welcome, References to dames of the American Theater that only Logan Echolls would know, Secret Identity Porn, Snark, Surveillance, Tumblr Memes, Unresolved Sexual Tension, lvaw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-18
Updated: 2014-07-23
Packaged: 2018-02-09 10:07:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1978827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ghostcat/pseuds/Ghostcat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A small collection of Logan and Veronica ficlets, part of <a href="http://loganmars.tumblr.com/post/91592566177/we-here-at-loganandveronica-are-very-excited-to">Logan and Veronica Appreciation Week</a> on Tumblr. Little bits here and there from the series and the film.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ah, Young Love

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to [the logan and veronica tumblr](http://www.loganandveronica.tumblr.com%20) for organizing this week. To see other works posted this week by other artists and fic writers, go [here](https://www.tumblr.com/search/lvaw).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Logan/Veronica Appreciation Week | Day Two | Favorite Parallel » _Ah, Young Love!_ \- Normal is the Watchword (2.1)/Not Pictured (2.22)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to [blithers](http://archiveofourown.org/users/blithers) and [disdainfullady](http://archiveofourown.org/users/disdainfullady) for eyeballing this cobbled-at-the-last-minute ficlet.

I.

She’s different. That smile is so indulgent it might as well crack. He knows her now, knows her better, and that expression isn’t her at all. It’s a simulation and he’s gone and woken up in some Philip K. Dick high school sci-fi nightmare. One where this is not his beautiful girlfriend, but a pair of gimlet eyes and a tense jaw. No heart, just facts. Algorithms, disappointment, and manufactured contentment.

He’d seen her, a couple of weeks ago, bumped into her at a public plaza near her coffee shop. Accidentally, on purpose, what did it matter? She’d looked right past him, held her breath.

“So are we doing that thing where you don’t talk to me?” He’d tucked her hair back, cheerily, letting himself grin like a broken doll might. “How nostalgic of you. Is this going to be a regular feature again? I talk, you pretend not to listen but,” slowing down, not for effect, but because any second now he was going to lose the ease and the desperation was going to show. “Every. Word. Slides home.”

He’d waggled his eyebrows and clasped his hands tight in front of him, even though he had badly wanted to drag his finger up her neck, to her ear, and touch the soft skin of her earlobe, the small freckle that sat there, bite it like she did to him. Had done. She’d taken a deep breath, her glare a heavy climb up to his eyes, cold and thrilling, and shoved him back, hard. He had laughed, hand at his chest where she’d touched him, the amusement fading quickly into disbelief, her determined walk away worse than any belt crack.

Logan had driven to Dick’s after that somewhat unsatisfying tête-à-tête, angry and ready, and hoped his sad excuse for a new BFF might be down for some mayhem. He wound up meeting Dick’s new stepmom for the first time instead, and got to know her in their near-empty house, the sound echoing off of the terracotta walls. It did the trick. To an extent. She tired easily.

Back here on REKAL, Duncan is doing that thing where he sings, Veronica’s doing that thing where she glows, and he’s trying not to heave. She doesn’t see him. He knows she doesn’t, she’s not cold. She’s different.

II.

Logan parks in a dark spot, next to a bodega trying to drum up extra business by serving horchata in styrofoam cups and handing them out to their customers. The street smells like garbage, dank and sour, but it may as well be roses because it had only been three hours since he’d last held Veronica Mars, it would only be two more before she got on that plane and he was going to touch her as much as possible in the time between. He’s early.

A little boy runs past holding a star shaped piñata, a dog barking at his heels. He’s got a mess of something red and sticky on his cheek and his laugh is like a joyful shimmer of bells. Logan smiles at them both because  _yeah, me too, kid_. Shaking his head because being the kind of person who smiles at children and their dogs is her doing. It has to be. Sarcastic, resourceful, sharp as nails Veronica Mars. Nothing makes him warmer, looser inside— happy. Apparently, that was a thing.

He’d tried to convince her to let him buy another ticket to NYC and follow her and her dad at a discreet distance. He’d slouch. Wear hats. Meet her in hallways with ugly hotel carpets when she went to get ice. Stay nearby, close enough to meet for a quick street cart pretzel. Or two. She’d eat both.

“Stay at the Plaza?” she’d said, rising up on her toes and kissing his chin.

“The Plaza are condos now.”

“Really?”

“Really,” he’d replied, kissing her nose, butterfly-light.

“That’s so sad.”

And he’d known why it was sad, why her gaze had clouded over, why she’d smiled past it. He’d known because this was his life and she’d witnessed it just as he had hers. Another girl dressing up like Eloise on a long ago Halloween, a girl they had both loved. He’d brought her wrist up to his mouth, lips brushing against the pulse of it. Veronica kissed him then, fast and feverish. That was all they could do. They’d run out of time.

He watches her from the door of Mars Investigations for a moment, the bright movement of her arms reaching around her desk, then showily makes himself useful and Veronica’s smile when she sees him is parting-clouds-letting-out-the-sun beautiful. He’s got to spin around her, he’s her satellite, he could do this forever and ever. His face to hers, kissing that smile that’s only for him.


	2. The Heart Is (or, the origin of Epic)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Logan/Veronica Appreciation Week | Day Three | Favorite Season » Season Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canon speculation on Epic Love, in three parts- 1. A Three Hour Desert Movie, 2. A Three Hour Desert Movie Revisited - now with expert commentary, 3. A Slow Dance Worthy of the Cinema
> 
> Thanks again to [blithers](http://archiveofourown.org/users/blithers) and [disdainfullady](http://archiveofourown.org/users/disdainfullady/pseuds/disdainfullady) for the last minute beta reading. I am most appreciative.
> 
> This story is dedicated to [nightlocktime](http://nightlocktime.tumblr.com/) who provided the gifs below.
> 
>  
> 
> [ ](http://imgur.com/zDxd9xh)  
> 
> 
>  
> 
> [ ](http://imgur.com/oL67jGA)  
> 
> 
>  
> 
> [ ](http://imgur.com/hFYYmvj)  
> 

His chest rattled and when he breathed, he wheezed. A fever had settled into his body like an enormous pair of hot hands squeezing tight. That didn’t stop his mom from wrapping him up in a fuzzy throw, like a burrito, and placing him sideways on the couch. Moving hurt, hurt all over, so he shifted slowly, in boredom mostly, every new position accompanied with a deep sigh. Logan was upside down now, feet up in the air, his legs against the back of the couch, sitting next to his mom and watching the most boring R-rated movie of all time. He turned his head sideways and coughed.

She let him watch whatever he wanted, his dad did too, most of the time. They liked to explain to him that none of what he saw was real, body parts getting blown up or shot, cars exploding, your dad with a machine gun, your mom kissing some other guy. He was allowed to watch love scenes. He knew they were fake. That the actors often hated each other and pretended. His parents had told him about stuff. He wasn’t a baby. Naked bodies were usually real, sometimes. His mom picked a butt double for herself once and they laughed looking at all the glossy, pro-grade photos with resumes on the back. He helped pick the winner. He was ten. That was last year.

They were in the den watching a man and a woman on the screen. He was a dick to her, she was a bitch, they were somewhere in the desert. Someone bought a carpet or something. The movie sucked. It kept jumping back and forth in time and he no clue what was going on. His mom would reach over and scratch his head now and again, her long nails felt great against his scalp. She sipped her wine, her eyes never leaving the screen.

“He’s so handsome,” she murmured.

“He’s an asshole.”

“Logan. Language,” but she wasn’t really scolding, she sounded more amused than anything.

“He’s… not cool.”

She laughed. “True, he’s very not cool.”

The people onscreen looked silly upside down, so he wiggled back to sideways. That was better.

“Why does he keep staring at that lady?”

His mother looked down at him, a soft smile on her face. “He thinks she’s pretty.”

“Yeah, but he’s not saying anything. He should tell her.”

“You’re right, he should.” She bit her lip, nodding slowly, then took another sip of wine. Logan coughed, and it shook his body. He forced himself to sit up, reaching for the hot honey lemon thingy his mom had made him, and took tiny little scalding sips. Soon he was warm all over.

He sighed again, raspily. “Great. Now they’re  _slow dancing_.”

His mom laughed, biting her thumb. Logan loved making her laugh. He continued, encouraged by the sound of it.

“I mean, come on. Why would you slow dance with someone and not talk? Just stare at them. That’s weird.”

“Oh, honey. Some people don’t know what to say to the people they love.” She took a long drink of her wine. “Or they don’t know how to love.”

“But why?”

She didn’t say anything for a long time and when he looked over at her, she was crying. His skin felt cold now, fighting the heat. Logan shivered in response to the clashing temperatures, his teeth chattering. He hated this fucking movie.

“Mom?”

“What, bunny?”

“Can we watch something else?”

“No way, baby,” she sniffed, daintily wiping at her nose with a kleenex. “This is one of mommy’s favorites. It’s got everything. It’s beautiful, the acting is wonderful, there’s love and passion, and caves and art and,” her hand reached out and tickled him, “bombs and airplanes…”

Logan giggled. That was pretty awesome.

“Aaaand music and misunderstandings and war and bloodshed. I just love a good romantic epic. You can get lost in them.”

“So you want dad to stare at you a lot. And dance with you.”

“Yeah. Why not.” She laughed.

“Gross.”

He fell asleep to the sound of her laughter, and when he woke up the stupid movie still wasn’t over but his mom was asleep. Logan felt better. He scooted closer to her, taking the empty wine glass from her hand and putting it on the coffee table. He leaned forward and watched the man on the screen carry the woman through the desert, weeping to the swell of strings.

 

* * *

 

Dick’s eyes were bloodshot and when he spoke his mouth kept forming these ridiculous O shapes. It was hypnotic. And a little repulsive.

“Dude. This movie blows. Why are we watching this shart?”

Logan raised his eyebrows at his slack-jawed companion’s always compelling word choices, took the pickle from his room service tray, and said, “Once again,  _Dick_. I started this fine film before you arrived, uninvited and unexpected.”

“I brought weed.” Dick blinked at him slowly.

He supposed that was offering enough. It was hard to hate Dick. Astonishing idiocy aside, he required very little effort. Logan appreciated the simplicity of their association.

“Fair enough.” Logan bit into the pickle with a violent snap.

The door opened and just his fucking luck, DK and Veronica Mars. The couple with the mostest. Suddenly, he loved Dick Casablancas, was glad he was there, because he knew it would just increase Veronica’s irritation ten fold. She’d never have sex with DK while Dick was around, she’d be forced to go home without her twice weekly thrust thrust snoozefest.

“Duncan! And Rons!  _Duncan’s_  ladyfriend who I have nothing but the utmost respect for and think is a total peach.”

It was even better than he’d hoped. Veronica narrowed her eyes and did that thing where she angled her jaw to the side like an old fashioned typewriter. She looked at him then, as if he was responsible, and he smiled because yeah, he was.

Logan waved brightly at them. “Hello, you two. Welcome home! Popcorn?”

DK wandered over and took some. Veronica rolled her eyes and went over to Duncan’s room, slamming the door shut behind her.

Logan looked up at DK, he didn’t seem to register. He wondered how long that little Let’s Pretend My Girlfriend Isn’t a Raging Hellbitch trick was gonna work. Logan wasn’t stupid or self-delusional, he’d known what Veronica was like when he dated her, but the difference between him and DK was that he liked that about her, the attack dog bark and bite of the girl. He found it exciting. Because he was fucked up beyond measure and he deserved her. Busting his balls and accusing him of everything under the sun, squirming on him in the back of his car, all open mouthed and hot.

Dick broke his reverie. “So Duncan, Ronnie’s dad lets her stay the night? I didn’t think he was that,” and here Dick used quotation fingers, “progressive.”

“Excellent word choice, dude,” Logan drawled.

“Thanks bro, I’m trying to raise my SAT score. Untimed. Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder. I need extra hours to think.”

Logan smiled indulgently. “Don’t we all?”

Duncan watched the TV screen oblivious to them both, munching his popcorn slowly.

“Shouldn’t you go in there, man?” Logan offered, never it be said that he wasn’t an awesome best friend, even when it went deeply against his best interest.

“No, she’s okay. She’s tired. Her dad’s out of town for the next couple of nights.”

Fucking wonderful. His torment now came with added sleepover fun.

Dick left eventually, bored of “old dudes with prune faces” and “chicks who needed to wax”. Duncan went off too, fist bumping him weakly. Logan tensed, waiting for something. The sound of them touching, her soft laughter, or better, her sneaking out and standing in front of him, her eyes expectant. None of those things happened. He went to bed.

* * *

 

There was déjà vu and then there was something worse. Where you can feel a heavy, dull ache in your chest along with the hummingbird-like buzz in your mind of this, this, this.

He hadn’t thought it through. As usual, he’d let himself be led away. Right into her arms, as it turns out. She was as close as he’d hoped she would be in all these past months and he didn’t know what to do with the reality of her proximity. Veronica seemed to be having regrets as well because the breeziness was gone, replaced by something brittle and hesitant. They were too close and you couldn’t get them this close without trouble. He put his hands on her waist, kept the pressure light and his eyes away from her. Because no one slow dances and stares, saying nothing. Spinning slowly in dull, small circles, the knot of her hands tight at the back of his neck, her lips shiny as if she’d licked them. He tried but he couldn’t stop staring, lights and people nothing around them, the stupid thump of his heart.

Their eyes locked and he thought she could see him then. Well and truly, because she let him lean forward and rest his forehead against hers and when they sighed, they did so together.

Logan wanted to laugh, he really did, but it never made its way up to his throat. Instead he thought, over and over, tell her she’s pretty, tell her, talk to her, look at her. Don’t let her go. Carry her in the desert, kiss her in the shadows, let the years go by, fly across continents, suffer and love and lose. Get lost in it. Because here it was in front of him, his technicolor love story. Veronica Mars and him. Always.

 


	3. A Stillness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Logan/Veronica Appreciation Week | Day Four | Favorite Quote From The Thousand Dollar Tan Line » _“It was a strange thing, watching him without his knowing. His long, vulpine face had a stillness she didn’t usually see in it, pensive and expectant.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Veronica takes a photo the summer before Junior year of high school. She finds it again in the present.
> 
> Thank you to [disdainfullady](http://archiveofourown.org/users/disdainfullady/pseuds/disdainfullady) for her invaluable beta read.
> 
> [lilamadison11](http://lilamadison11.tumblr.com/) [made a beautiful graphic to accompany this story](http://ghostcat3000.tumblr.com/image/92254449940). Many thanks for the inspiration and for being you. :)
> 
>   
> [](http://imgur.com/3SUaGk5)  
>   
> 

There was divorce and then there was the kind of divorce that people sang about in country songs, each letter spelled out, nice and slow, so that everybody understood that business was meant: D-I-V-O-R-C-E. 

This was the clear-cut tune the client was singing tonight and hoped Mars Investigations could provide sympathetic backbeat for. The only problem being that Mars Investigations was short one Mars. The important one, Keith Mars-- out in Albuquerque on a skip trace, and not expected back for another couple of days. Unfortunately, this was also the evening the skittish Mr. Biddle-Lewis had finally gotten careless and made email plans to meet his inamorata at the Mariner, a slightly more upscale motel not far from the Camelot. Dad or no dad, they needed the money this case could bring, so when the email-tracking Mrs. Biddle-Lewis called with the details, Veronica hadn’t thought twice. She’d grabbed the camera that she’d been slowly teaching herself to use, put a leash on Back-Up, and headed out.

There’s a first time for everything. They say it only hurts the one time, maybe she’d finally learn if that was true.

It turned out to be piece of cake. The Mariner hotel rooms shared balconies and Veronica snuck herself into the adjacent room using a hairpin on the flimsy lock. (Thank you, shady former-con poker buddies of Cliff’s! Fruit basket with your names on it at the next game!) She squeezed past the divider onto the illicit lovers’ side of the balcony, praying to the gods of Harry Caul that no one would ruin her escape route by checking-in and that her target would be too busy with his party to notice the girl with the camera behind the billowing curtains. No one did, he was, and she got her money shot. Two actually. Mr. Biddle-Lewis was into corporeal punishment and schoolgirl uniforms. On himself. In truth, she was grateful for the creativity. It made the assignation seem _less_ tawdry somehow since at least it wasn't pretending to be Endless Love.

She sat in her car afterwards eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich she’d had the forethought to bring. She shared it with Back-Up, hands shaking only slightly, and the adrenaline buzzing more and more faintly, thinking her dad was either going to be so proud or ground her for the rest of the month.

That’s when she saw him. Logan Echolls. Out past his bedtime, in a borderline shady part of town. Well, well, well. She’d love some dirt on him. Former friend turned current prize horse’s ass. Veronica ducked down slightly in her car seat. The last thing she needed was for him to spot her and come have one of their usual one-sided chats. She adjusted her cap, tucking in all stray wisps of blonde.

Logan was walking a little unsteadily. Was he drunk? Judging by his enormous pants that looked like they came straight from the Ralph Lauren Rave Resort Wear line, he must be. He took out his phone but didn't use it, rifling his hand nervously in his hair, eyes large and worried. Logan looked at his phone for a moment, like he was considering confessing, then sat down heavily on a step on the motel staircase. He looked around for a while, aimless and slightly agitated, then stilled, his cheeks rounded and pale, the last vestiges of his baby self. Veronica grabbed her camera, zoomed in, and took a picture.

She thought about approaching him, saying hey, remember me, you asshole and then offering him a ride because that’s the kind of sap she was. Then she remembered she was more than that and started her car. He had a whole team of winged monkeys at his beck and call. He would be fine. She didn't look back.

Veronica developed the photos and forgot to take Logan’s picture out. She found her dad looking at it when he got back, the top of his pate red from the New Mexico sun. Now _that_ was a rookie mistake she'd never make again.

“Did Logan Echolls help you out with this job, honey?”

She took it from his hand gently, playing it cool. “Nah, pops. Just wanted to get a handle on the local criminal element.”

“So you two aren’t buddies again?”

“Actually, we’re totally meeting at the drive-in on Sunday! He’ll cover the snacks, I’ll buy the soda, and then we’ll tell each other all our deepest hopes and dreams. We’re gonna be Junior year besties!” It was meant to be light, but her syrupy tone pitched terribly close to anger, shaky and a little breathless. _Get a grip, Veronica._

Her father usually the coolest of customers, furrowed his brow, a single deep crease. She breathed out on a slow five count.

“Sorry, dad. It’s hard to turn the sarcasm button off once you’ve pressed it. Must've malfunctioned again. Going to bed, night night.”

Veronica kissed him on the cheek, walked briskly to her room and sat down on her bed. She looked at Logan’s face in the picture in her hand, all alone, sallow under streetlights. She remembered him, her friend. That was his face sometimes when he thought no one was looking. Blank, still, quiet.

 

* * *

 

Neptune’s ~~second~~ finest Private Eye opened the front door and the smell of simmering garlic and onions hit her nose like a delicious savory bouquet. Ah, home cooking.

“Hey honey, I’m home!” she shouted, shrugging her studded bag off her shoulder and putting her camera on the counter. She stopped to check her reflection in the mirror next to the pillar and made sure to touch the column as she turned. Memories, all alone in the moonlight and many other happy returns.

“I’m in the bedroom. Can you turn off the stove for me, sweetie?”

“On it,” she shouted back.

She turned off the stove and walked to the back. Her dad was on the bed, rifling through stacks of photos. He’d been packing boxes for storage. Now that it was clear she wasn’t going anywhere he wanted to make more room.

“Look what I found.”

He handed her a photograph. Logan at… fifteen? Sixteen? Sitting on a step and staring off, all cheeks and spiky hair, painfully, painfully young.

“When did you find this?”

“Back when you were in college, when I was moving out from the Sunset. The oddest thing. It was in the air vent. House elves?”

Veronica smiled ruefully. “Definitely house elves. One of the few Sunset Cliff perks.”

“It’s a beautiful photo, honey.” He rubbed her back and pulled her into a hug.

“Yeah. It is.”

“Three more days, huh?”

 _Was her dad counting too now?_ She kissed him on the cheek. “Three more days.”

After the Provencal stew (delicious) and the debriefing on today’s fraud investigation (unexpectedly complicated), her dad drove off to meet some poker buddies. She took a long shower and tooled around in her bathrobe, slowly rubbing almond cream on her elbows, stretching out her shoulder. It ached.

When she finally got into bed, she grabbed the photo again. It reminded her of something— yes, Logan on Skype in the lag before he could see her. The way he looked on her computer screen, all alone, without a witness. She loved watching him like that. Calm, waiting. But also different, because now that blankness had a serenity to it. As if he knew that whatever it was he was waiting for was certainly arriving.

She’d have to catch him again, when he was unaware. Take a photo and frame it this time, put it on the nightstand so she could see it whenever she wanted to. Veronica Mars, sap.


	4. The Matador Performs a Series of Verónica

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Logan/Veronica Appreciation Week | Day Five | Favorite Friendly Moment » _Does this mean you’re gonna play nice now?/Walk in front of the car, we’ll see_ | You Think You Know Somebody (1.05)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No beta on this one, apologies for the mess.
> 
> Thank you to [nightlocktime](http://nightlocktime.tumblr.com/) [for making a couple of gifs to accompany this story.](http://ghostcat3000.tumblr.com/post/92340628235/logan-veronica-appreciation-week-day-five) You are the bestest.
> 
>   
>  [](http://imgur.com/Ct0YNnl)   
>  [](http://imgur.com/Y6PsAUw)   
> 
> 
>  

_Things Fall Apart. Things Fall Apart. Please tell me I didn’t leave it at home. Ah, there you are._

Veronica Mars grabbed her book and put it in her book bag. She pulled a pen out, put it in her mouth like a matador with a rose and slammed her locker door shut. Logan was standing there, looking up at her from under raised eyebrows. Charm. He was going for charm. _This should be interesting._

She took the pen out of her mouth, and made a big show of looking at her watch. He laughed.

“So, I hear love’s young dream has up and left town.”

“Yes.” Veronica sighed grandly. “I’m gonna miss him.”

“You are.” His voice was flat, disbelief writ large.

Veronica nodded enthusiastically. “Don’t get me wrong. Amy Poehler is incredible but I had such a soft spot for James and the way he read them news.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Jimmy Fallon leaving SNL," she said slowly, then pointed at him. "Who are _you_ talking about?”

He rolled his eyes. “Pretty Boy Troy.”

“Oh. Him. He wasn’t _that_ pretty. You’re prettier.” She fluttered her eyelashes at him, Logan huffed out a funny little laugh.

“Stop it, Veronica,” he murmured, looking up sharply. “I might get the wrong idea.”

She dropped the champagne tone to her voice, hardened it meaningfully. “When do you not?”

Logan chose to ignore that jibe, turning slightly so that the bulk of him leaned against the locker. He put his finger on the door and ran the tip across the ridges.

“Here’s the funny thing. I’m a popular guy.”

She narrowed her eyes and darted them to the side in in her best imitation of skeptical contemplation. “Yeah, I’ve heard that. Is there a point to this?”

“And I heard from someone, a friend of a friend, that not-so-pretty Troy was really mad at some girl at Neptune High. Someone who caused him to lose something of real value.”

Veronica’s eyebrows raised sky-high. “ _Something_?”

“Yeah, I wouldn’t begin to know.” Logan shrugged disingenuously.

“No. Of course not.”

“But _you_ might. So was it you, Veronica? Did you make some calls,” he said, toeing her boot with his sneaker. “Did you rat him out?” There was no malice to his whisper, it didn’t quite compute.

“Rat him out about what?” She stepped closer. He wanted to play it cute, so would she. She looked up at him the way she might’ve looked at Duncan once, wide-eyed, mouth slightly open. “You’re being awfully vague and also, awfully interested in the foibles of someone you never seemed to like very much.”

He stared at her mouth for a moment, then back up to her eyes “And you seem awfully relaxed for someone whose dreamy boyfriend skipped town.”

“Well, you know me, Logan. I’m the chillest.”

They stared at each other. It occurred to her then that this was the longest conversation they’d had in months. Now, Logan wasn’t a gossip but he was a snoop. So he was asking her because he wanted to know. Like they were friends or something. Too bad he lost those privileges.

“Life is funny, isn’t it, Logan? You choose wrong, you do the wrong thing, sometimes you get away with it… ”

She had his full attention, he leaned forward.

“Sometimes you don’t,” she continued. “Sometimes you pay for it. Because someone’s always gotta pay. And sometimes life is just and the person that pays is the person who did wrong. You’d do well to remember that. Consider it some friendly advice.”

She brushed past him, the smile on her face threatening to break past its regular parameters. Veronica got two steps forward before she was pulled back, Logan had her by the belt loop of her jeans, ducking his face down so they were at eye-level. Bizarrely, he was grinning, open and genuine. It was the grin that stopped her from elbowing him in the stomach. It was the grin that made her grin back.

He bumped his shoulder to hers, just a soft hit, and let her go with a flourish, his hand wide. Veronica nodded once, her smile still enormous and unrepentant, and walked away.

Wallace was waiting for her a little further down the hall, head cocked slightly, a puzzled cast to his eyes. “What was that all about?”

“Just having some chit chat with an old pal.”

Wallace’s eyebrows gathered, raised and perturbed. “You okay, V-Mars? For real?”

“Yeah. Why do you ask?”

He looked behind her, then at her. “No reason.”

“Good. Come on, dear Wallace. Let’s get our modern lit on.”

She crooked her arm for him to take, he looked at it, shaking his head and putting his arm around her instead.


	5. In The Gale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Logan/Veronica Appreciation Week | Day Six | Favorite Romantic Moment » _Assured my love would come along..._ aka And Then They Banged | The Veronica Mars Movie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My definition of romance involves Arts & Craft pillar wall bangage, obvs.
> 
> Thank you to [MachaSWicket](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MachaSWicket/pseuds/MachaSWicket) for her quick beta read and mention of the "ready five" term.
> 
> Thank you to [nightlocktime](http://www.nightlocktime.tumblr.com) for use of her gif.
> 
>   
>  [](http://imgur.com/yh0yK75)   
> 

No dossier, no prep, no ready five, just go, go, go.

In the hours prior, he’d been worried about seeing Keith Mars, bracing himself for the unavoidable, single-blink subtle, _why-are-you-interrupting-my-daughter’s-life-of-emotional-and-professional-achievement?_ look of condemnation. Well, subtle to anyone who wasn’t Logan. Or Veronica. Or Keith Mars himself, who, like the Aerosmith ditty, never wanted to miss a thing and usually didn’t.

The three of them together were always an unstable element. Starting from the time Veronica sprained her arm during their little summer adventure post-Freshman year. Logan will never forget the powder soft voice then-Sheriff Mars used to tell him, out of Veronica’s earshot, that he didn’t trust him one bit and that he’d be watching him. Now that he’s a grown man he gets it, he does. If he had a daughter and fourteen year-old him came sniffing around, he’d move house, build a tower, put her in it, sit at the bottom and wait. Somehow knowing that the kid would find a way in, no matter what.

All day, he’d been thinking about what it would be like to touch her. His pockets were going to have frayed holes in their seams from all that determined containment. Keith Mars would have known, of course, had he seen him, and wouldn't have appreciated his self-control, his sacrifice. Not one bit. He would have, as always, expected the worst from Logan and he would have been right. Logan wanted his daughter. Wanted that sneaky smile next to him in the morning, her delicate fingers pulling on his shirt collar at night. He had hoped for her for so long, even half-dormant and buried under years of choices, it was an eternal truth. He'd never stopped wanting her. It would always be her.

He’d worried about so many things before leaving the house. How despite all evidence pointing to his obvious Veronica Mars-related delusion, he still picked out a shirt he knew she would like. Because she told him a long time ago that he didn’t wear enough blue. Because he remembered the words that she said.

Logan had amazing reading recall and could rattle off relevant words on just about any subject should the moment call for it. Which is why he’d been embarrassed when all he could remember as he drove over to the Mars residence that evening was a cliched recitation of _“Hope” is the thing with feathers - That perches in the soul - And sings the tune without the words - And never stops - at all”_ on a loop, in a sing-song cadence that sounded suspiciously like Julie Harris. Logan Echolls _IS_ the Belle of Neptune.

Of course, of all the things he should have been hoping for— nabbing Carrie’s killer, getting cleared of murder charges, being able to fly again— the one that buzzed loudest with alarming, ever-ripening intensity was the hope of being able to kiss Veronica Mars again. Her flashing eyes, her dirty laugh, the sweet bite of her teeth on his chest, close enough to breathe in, all the old standbys whenever he was far from home and lonely, lost.

When the moment presents itself, because it had to, it was always going to, reality has nothing in common with the projection. Veronica looks terrified, wide open, the kind of vulnerable that frightens the weak. She vibrates with a deep and dazzling want and her hands on his face are hot, grasping. All that hypothetical hoping had assured him that he would be a mess in response, desperate and useless, but amazingly, his hard-earned professional grace under pressure kicks in. He is with her, with her in every possible way, but he is constantly assessing, stepping back, gauging, reading her every breath for the turn, the deep trough or gale-wind, until he can bring them both in safely. He focuses. She is falling apart in his hands before he even gets inside.


	6. The Pliant Web

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Logan/Veronica Appreciation Week | Day Seven | Favorite AU » _1948 Tripoli-set Espionage Romance Thriller EPIC_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please keep in mind that the scroll-over on the French dialogue says what Logan is _trying_ to say but not perhaps what he _actually_ says. His French is not so great. He's working on it.
> 
> Thank you to:
> 
> [MachaSWicket](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MachaSWicket/pseuds/MachaSWicket) and [disdainfullady](http://archiveofourown.org/users/disdainfullady/pseuds/disdainfullady) for beta reading on the fly like champions
> 
> [fponthedl](http://fponthedl.tumblr.com/) for translating some French for me and making Logan sound ridiculous.
> 
> One big hug to everyone at [loganandveronica](http://loganandveronica.tumblr.com/) for dreaming up this week, everyone who participated - you are all inspiring.
> 
> Special thank you to [lilamadison11](http://lilamadison11.tumblr.com/) who created [this beautiful film poster for this ficlet](http://ghostcat3000.tumblr.com/post/92566527175/logan-veronica-appreciation-week-day-seven).
> 
>   
>  [](http://imgur.com/yjyWBjC)   
> 

The Medina is just starting to pick up, the vendors bustling with new vigor, taking the time to reorganize their wares. They know that now is the time of the day when the expat crowd most like to make their appearances. Prices go up, and the stalls burst with silkily spoken English, along with French and Italian. Everyone with a smile in place. The colors are warm, the usual honeyed hues of a Mediterranean city, and the air has that famous, distinctive smell of orange blossoms. He’s gonna miss this place.

Logan rubs his fingers on the surface of the rug, the texture is rough against his skin, but he can see the quality. The weave is tight and the colors are perfectly differentiated. Nevertheless, one must bargain or the natives will lose all respect. He sighs. ”Il est orange, je n’aime pas l’orange.”

”Il est rouge, rouge, le soleil vous joue des tours.” The merchant is a something of a friend, young, with eyes that appear startled most of the time giving him a humorous aspect of incredulity.

”Mais je n’ai pas besoin d’un tapis.” Logan squints and looks to the side, as if he is considering moving to another stall.

The merchant’s voice hitches up, suddenly, his arms expansive, the billowing sleeves of his white gown making him appear larger than he really is. ”Mais bien sûr que vous en avez besoin, les tapis ajoutent de la magie aux endroits. Comme de l’art sur le plancher. Ils apportent de l’harmonie aux pièces.”

Logan smirks. ”Mais ou avez-vous entendu ça, Cornélius?”. He waves his hand at him dismissively. ”N’utiliser pas votre discours de suceur d’expatrier sur moi.”

“Quoi? I do not comprehend your meaning. I'm sorry, Mr. Logan but your French is criminal.”

Logan’s voice drops to a whisper. “So is your operation but you don't hear me complaining.”

Cornelius laughs. “I'm starting to understand why the US Navy didn't want you.”

“Yeah, well, Uncle Sam don't have much use for cripples.” He smiles ruefully, tapping his cane on the ground for emphasis. “Besides where else can I practice my French, if not with you?”

The merchant smoothly hands Logan an envelope of cash hidden in a scarf the color of currants. Logan unwraps the scarf as if to examine it and deftly slips the envelope into his sleeve. Winnings from a gambling operation in an illegal casino across town. Not his, he’s just the pick-up man. He hands the scarf back with a shrug and Cornelius hangs it back with the others. The subterfuge, while ridiculous, is necessary. The war may be over but times are tough, and finding trustworthy types like Cornelius is rare. Logan transfers the envelope into a cleverly sewn pickpocket-proof interior pouch and as he turns he spots two acquaintances entering the market, unknowingly heading in his direction— Reuters Libyan correspondent, Stosh Piznarski and his chipper little camera-toting wife Veronica “Call me Ronnie” Piznarski.

“Do me a favor, Corny old sport. Lay it on real thick with these two when they come this way, I don’t want them to see me and trap me in a conversation about issues with the British Military Administration or,” he gives a delicate shiver. “Homer.”

“You are a strange man, Mr. Logan.”

Logan smiles and grabs a handful of almonds before Cornelius can slap his hand. “And yet you love me.”

He grins at him widely and slinks out of sight seconds before Piznarski and mate come strolling along. Logan doesn’t dislike the man exactly. If you overlook his longish hair and propensity for puns, he’s an alright guy. When cornered, Logan finds it best to guide him into a conversation about jazz, a topic they both seem to enjoy, and steer him clear of the editorial-style ranting that never fails to make Logan want to hop on the nearest camel and head straight to the deserts of Fezzan.

Now his wife… She is interesting. Beautiful? Absolutely, if a little sharper than what he usually goes for. Tiny and animated, with slender legs that went on far longer than they had a right to considering her stature. She is in many ways your typical expat wife, chatty, fair, with a sparkly peal of a laugh that announced her position in a room, always cooing over the local customs. But there is something else to her, something he can’t quite place. Last week at the a dinner party for the British Consulate, he could’ve sworn he saw her roll her eyes at one of Lady Sinclair’s more asinine pronouncements, but when he leaned in to have a closer look, she was all nods and eager smiles, not a trace of discord in sight.

He watches them from the shadow of a doorway and laughs to himself as Corny enthusiastically shows them a variety of change purses. Piznarski buys one and hands it over to Ronnie with some fanfare, she rewards him with a chaste peck on the cheek. They walk hand in hand through the market, and Logan follows them impulsively, at a respectful distance.

After ten minutes or so, Ronnie points to her watch and pouts prettily. Piznarski embraces her and she walks off, under the arches, in the direction of the Italian Quarter where most of the expats reside. Piznarski watches her go fondly, then stares at the wares on the table in front of him before settling on a Tuareg cross, which he purchases without haggling, thanking the man in Berber and bounding off like a puppy in the park.

Logan stands there for a moment, taking stock of the sweet, domestic scene he’s just witnessed. It’s adorable how innocent they are, those two. He can’t quite believe they’re real. It’s a like a war never happened, not in the world, not in their hearts, like no one ever died. He laughs. If that was a gift for her, she won’t like it, she favors smaller things. Even he knows that and he barely knows her.

A flash of blonde catches his eye and he sees Ronnie Piznarski entering back from where she came from. He slouches and hides himself behind a stall, hurriedly passing the merchant a few coins and putting his fingers up to his mouth in a shushing motion. She looks around cautiously, then her expression changes, shifts into something fascinatingly, intriguingly, hard-edged. She takes out a dark scarf from her purse and covers her hair with it, quickly and efficiently as if she’s done this dozens of times, then walks the other way, deeper into the market, in a determined, fleet-footed rush.

Logan doesn’t even think about it. He throws his cane in the air gaily, catches it, and takes off after her. Far enough away as to remain undetected and close enough to keep her in his sights, moving seamlessly in the crowd, one lock of yellow hair escaping her headscarf, curled at the nape of her neck, a little damp and a lot bright.

 

* * *

 

A week passes, then two. Logan has work to do after all. The work of being an expat playboy with a war wound, a rumored drinking problem, and co-ownership of the only nightclub in Tripoli. As well as other things, things that require less overt moves. He’s a busy man.

When the invitation comes for some thrown together celebration in honor of the restructuring of the city, good riddance Italians, blah blah blah God Save The Queen, he accepts for one reason only. Pretty and petite Mrs. Piznarski will be there and while the klaxons in his noggin are telling him that way lies madness, he finds that he needs to know. Who is she, why was she paying notorious stoolie Willie Murphy a visit in his hovel near the Medina, and what did she do to leave that lowlife a quivering, teeth-chattering mess?

The Winter Ball winds up being no different than any other sleep-inducing self-congratulatory events he’s had to attend. It is, however, conveniently held at a former girls’ school turned manse of business associate, drinking buddy, and fool, Richard Casablancas. Which means he knows all the nooks and crannies of the locale intimately.

Logan pretends to be enjoying himself for about twenty torturous minutes and then seeks out his quarry. He spies the Mr. and the Mrs. sitting at a table on the outdoor balcony. At first, he keeps it casual, a little local politics to get Piznarski braying, thus attracting more blowhards to the conversation and opening up some space to casually address the twinkly-eyed woman across from him, resplendent in a draped, yellow evening gown.

He tents his fingers and smiles pleasantly. “That’s a lovely necklace. Is that a cross?”

“Yes. Stosh says it’s Bedouin. I’m not exactly sure how one wears it but my girl secured me this piece of leather and here we are.”

“A choker,” he offers helpfully.

“Yes, a choker.” She’s got a lovely smile, which isn’t real.

He brings up his hand to his face, and stills it by biting on his index finger. “Weren’t chokers worn by women in mourning? Or was it prostitutes… I can’t quite remember. I’m a little hazy on my facts.”

She scowls slightly but soon the smile is back on her face, smaller, tighter, held together with a restrained sort of politeness. She shifts in her chair.

“I’ve seen those before you know.”

“Oh?” She is looking past him, past the doors, into the great room.

“The crosses. At the Medina. It’s a wonderful place.” He crosses his legs, gingerly. “You should be careful though, one wrong turn there and you might find yourself in a less savory part of the city. Why just a couple of weeks ago _I_ got lost. I didn’t know what to do. It scared the _willies_ out of me.”

Logan waggles his brows and waits, hoping to see her flinch. Nothing. A far away, almost bored look sits on her face. Next to him Piznarski and that engineer, Fennel, are deep in conversation. For all intents and purposes, they are alone.

He downs the rest of his champagne and presses on. “You know… For a second, I thought I saw you there. But it couldn’t have been. What would a lady such as yourself be doing in that part of town?”

She inhales deeply and turns to look at him, her long hair an undulating wave on the side of her face. “Excuse me. I just have to powder my nose. I’ll be right back.”

Logan watches her go, one hand lifting her dress daintily, her heels reflected on the checkered porcelain flooring. He follows in her direction, past the fountained courtyard and into a long side hallway. She steps into a washroom and he skips up behind, grabbing an out of order sign he keeps stashed nearby and hanging it on a hook in the door, pushing her in, and locking the door behind them.

There it is, that hard look. He finds it thrilling to behold. He smiles.

“I’ll scream,” she intones flatly.

“No, you won’t.” He walks over to the sink and rests there, crossing his legs in front of him. “So do you prefer Ronnie or Veronica?”

She crosses her arms and tilts her head. “Veronica.”

The way her wide, red lips stay open on the last vowel is a heavenly thing. He hums.

“Suits you.”

“Oh?”

He throws his head back and raises his hand up as if he’s looking to grasp something out of the air. “It’s a woman’s name.”

“You don’t say,” she says, dryly, and he giggles, actually giggles in response.

“Are you even married to that chump?” He directs his thumb in the direction of the party. “Or is that a front? I hope so for your sake.”

Veronica glides over to the mirror and opens her purse, taking out a compact to powder her nose. He plays with the golden taps of the sink, on and off, on and off, and when he looks up, she’s cooly staring at his reflection. Slowly, she blots her lips. He licks his.

“Fine. How about this, what’s your real name. Is it actually Veronica?”

She smiles at that and it’s one he’s never seen, wicked and one-sided. Her eyes flash at him, as if she’s trying to talk to him that way. Her mouth says nothing.

“Okay. Let’s start again. My name is Logan Echolls. I was born in Toledo, Ohio. A long time ago, I joined the Navy, got shot full of holes, and somehow wound up in this god forsaken place. I co-own a nightclub with my buddy Richard Casablancas, Junior, whom you know as he is our host this evening. I like Poker and also, Bridge, but don’t tell anyone that.”

She laughs, like she hadn't wanted to, and something in his chest warms. He pushes on.

“I’m not much of a reader. I do like to swim. Poorly. I’m harmless. Really. A kitty cat.” He gives her the biggest, softest eyes he can muster.

Veronica regards him, her stare weighty, and then languorously moves towards him, her gown whispering along the floor. When she speaks, her voice is rougher than he’s ever heard it. It gives him goosebumps.

“My name is Veronica Mars. Yes, like the planet and the god.” She is in front of him now. “I was born in Oneonta, NY. I like shopping and small talk.” She leans closer, whispering into the air between them. “Only one of those things is true. Can you guess which?”

Veronica backs away from him until her back hits the wall at the other side of the room. She mirrors his posture exactly. Right down to his clenched fist.

“Now you. Your name is Logan Echolls. That is true. You are a war hero, a naval aviator. An _excellent_ swimmer and dangerous at cards. You speak several languages passably well. You looooove to read or so says the bookseller in the Italian Quarter. You really like the ladies, including several that are out there making small talk right now. You inherited a fortune from your grandfather and live off of it. Not ostentatiously, you keep up appearances though. We’ll come back to that. Your associate Richard Casablancas runs an illegal gambling operation and you’re his pick-up man. You don’t need to do it, you have money, so... what?” She shrugs in feigned confusion. “Loyalty? Boredom? Stupidity? The thrill?”

“Definitely the thrill.” Logan smiles. “Neat parlor trick, blondie. So are you a spy?”

“No, but you are.”

He freezes.

“Don’t worry, buddy. I’m as patriotic as they come. I won’t get in your way if you don’t get in mine. I doubt we have the same objective. You’re here to keep an eye on the Limeys and there’s not much going on on that front. Am I right?”

“You think I’m a spy?” He laughs but his laughter sounds sticky even to himself.

“I _know_ you’re a spy.”

Logan sighs and uses his cane to stand away from the sink, wincing as he does so. Veronica smiles suddenly, meanly, walking over and kicking the cane to the floor with a deliberate swipe of her foot. The sound of it clattering echoes off the walls.

“And you don’t need that cane.”

Logan considers his choices, realizing that that this is it, the biggest mistake he’s ever made in his life, right here. He straightens up and shakes out his legs, ducks his head and looks up at her balefully.

Veronica bites her lip and he can almost hear her deliberating. She's wondering if she went too far, revealed too much. For the first time in their brief and exciting acquaintance, she looks... nervous. “You didn’t limp when you followed me just now. Sloppy for you. I’ve been impressed with your work otherwise. The last few month-- “

He grabs her arm and tugs her to him, gives her a second to be afraid or try to run, but she doesn’t. Her eyes widen and her diamonds earrings cast prisms of light on her face.

Logan leans down to whisper in her ear. “Do you hear that music out there? I haven’t danced in ages. Dance with me.”

He spins her around, two whirls in succession and pulls her in close, his cheek to hers. She is feather-light, easy to move. She follows him like a perfect shadow. Logan is surprised to find that he remembers some of the lyrics and murmurs along to the melody, _“I get no kick in a plane/I shouldn't care for those nights in the air/Flying too high with some guy in the sky/Is my idea of nothing to do/But I get a kick out of you.”_

“You’re a terrible singer,” she whispers.

When he kisses her, which he does, roughly, he makes it clear he means to wreck her. What she doesn’t know is that he’s wrecked as well. Being discovered should not make his head spin, giddy and full of smothered laughter, this is not an appropriate response, but fuck it. She molds to him and kisses back, bending in his arms. When her hands move up around his neck, he pushes her off, firmly, but doesn’t step away. He looms over her, staring her down.

“So are _you_ a spy, Veronica Mars?”

“I’m a private investigator.”

Logan blinks, this he doesn’t expect. He lets go of her, reluctantly, walks over to the sink, and turns on the cold water. It’s wonderfully chilly. He brings it up to his forehead.

“What are you here to find?”

She doesn’t answer and comes to stand next to him, fixing her hair in the mirror, reapplying her lipstick while he wipes hers off of his lips. She closes the clasp of her clutch with a dull click and walks over to the door, unlocking and opening it with two brisk snaps of her wrist. Veronica stills, doesn’t walk through. Her hand slides up, as if supporting herself, nails red against the doorframe.

“This is not how I dreamed my life would be. Making time with flyboys in a washcloset.”

She turns to look at him, that flaxen hair spilling over her shoulders. He wants to pull it, pull her back, have her right there, turn on all the taps to drown out the noise. Her mouth is open, her lips pull up at the corners.

“See you around, Lieutenant. Oh, I’m sorry. I forgot. _Captain._ ” Veronica salutes him, two fingers at her brow and exits.

He doesn’t follow or fret. He meticulously puts himself back together, piece by incremental piece. There are protocols in place for this type of situation but he knows, just like he knew she wasn’t who she appeared to be, that he has nothing to fear. Not from her, not that way. His heart, fast and loud, like a rabbit’s. Not fear. Something else, something out of the ordinary. He laugh-smiles at himself. Fuck.

Logan straightens his jacket and bowtie, and checks for red against the white one more time. “Veronica Mars,” he whispers reverently in an empty room, grabs his cane, and walks out carefully, back to the party, back to her orbit.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> Follow me on tumblr: @ghostcat3000


End file.
